


The Hand of Friendship

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Bad Weather, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Confessions, Friends to Lovers, Greg Makes a mistake, M/M, Male Friendship, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mystrade Advent Calendar, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Snow, Snowed In, Uncertain Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13122342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: "He was truly afraid he’d ruined one of the closest connections he’d had with, God, anyone in ages."A mistake, a present, and snow.





	The Hand of Friendship

Shy, ghosting breaths. Uncertain fingers trembling on his forearm. The soft lower lip was caught in a quick nip, startling out a dazed gasp. Hips pressed closer together.

 

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

 

Someone sighed low in his throat. “Myc…”

 

There was a sharp intake of air. The loss of warmth as footsteps stumbled backwards. A body impacted against the small table. The wooden legs scraped over the floorboards.

 

Then, the splintering crack of china meeting the ground.

 

Greg froze on the spot, staring at the remains of what had been a cup a few moments before. Tea soaked into the carpet around it.

 

He suddenly realised and dragged his gaze up. Cold dread seeped through his gut at what he read those wide, anxious blue eyes.

 

“I-“ Mycroft’s voice didn’t fully emerge. He glanced down at table, at the knocked over tea set.

 

He looked at Greg again.

 

His expression shuttered.

 

Stiffly, he went down to one knee and began gathering the shattered porcelain.

 

“Um - wait, I’ll help-“

 

“I can manage, thank you.”

 

“But-“ Greg took a step forward.

 

“I said it’s fine!” Mycroft snapped, his body tense.

 

Greg pulled back, watching in quiet despair as Mycroft silently picked up the shards piece by piece. He finally made the wisest decision he could in that instant and turned away. “I’ll, uh… I’ll go then.”

 

Mycroft didn’t answer. His silence said enough. It settled, heavy and cold in Greg’s chest, weighing him down as he walked out of the sitting room, out the front door, all the way to his car.

 

It still lingered, even after Mycroft’s home was long out of sight.

 

  

* * *

 

 

A month of radio silence. A month of his texts and phone calls going unanswered. The way Mycroft’s face had closed off constantly gnawed at Greg’s memory. He was truly afraid he’d ruined one of the closest connections he’d had with, God, _anyone_ in ages.

 

It’d taken three years to see through the smug façade, to coax out the thoughtful, quiet person walled up underneath the indifference and pleasant insincerity. Sometimes, during a friendly dinner and drinks together, Greg would catch Mycroft studying him, as though genuinely puzzled as to why Greg was there. It had been disheartening for Greg to wonder if he was one of the few real friends Mycroft had.

 

It’d only taken one mistake to unravel everything.

 

The night had been fine up until that point. Dinner, then back to Mycroft’s since it wasn’t that late yet. There’d been tea instead of whiskey - both had agreed they’d had enough wine already. Their back and forth had been easy, playful.

 

Then Mycroft had stood, shedding his jacket. He’d kept talking, freeing his arms and draping the item over the back of his chair. Greg’s eyes were drawn to his shoulders, the black waistcoat hugging against his waist, his pale neck.

 

Greg had suddenly wanted to know what it’d all feel like under his hands.

 

Mycroft had been caught off guard when Greg kissed him, a little sound catching in his throat that Greg wanted more of. Even so, it’d seemed like it was going all right, Mycroft kissing back after a moment with shy enthusiasm.

 

Then, his hands had shoved Greg away. He’d scrambled back so fast he backed into the table, all while that terrible expression dawned on his face.

 

He’d looked as though he’d been deceived in the worst possible way.

 

Greg felt helpless to fix things. He so badly wanted to talk to Mycroft, to explain, apologise. At one point he’d almost considered showing up at Mycroft’s club or his office before quickly realising how intrusive that would look. He’d been desperate enough to lay down his pride and ask Sherlock for help, and it’d turned out just as facepalmingly annoying as he’d known it would be.

 

Surprisingly, after Sherlock had gotten in his passive aggressive snipes at what he called Greg’s and his brother’s `emotional ineptness` - _pot, meet kettle,_ Greg had thought sourly - he did offer some real advice.

“If he truly wanted nothing to do with you, he’d have simply told you. This is just him brooding. He’ll come around eventually, but it won’t be until he’s good and ready. Best to give him his space until then.”

It was a better suggestion than anything Greg had come up with. Mustering up the necessary patience wasn’t easy, but the thought of further risking his fragile connection with Mycroft held Greg in check.

 

So he waited. At least his job and the approaching holidays worked as a distraction.

 

The snow came suddenly, with only a few days of warning ahead of it. At first it looked as though it would just remain as rain. Then the temperature took an abrupt plunge around the 20th, allowing for slow but relentless snowfall to blanket London. The snowplows worked nonstop as the month edged into late December, just barely able to keep ahead of the weather.

 

Despite it all, the city buzzed with a good-humored sort of energy. A true white Christmas hardly ever happened, and no one seemed immune to the nostalgic anticipation of it.

 

If only it weren’t such a pain in arse.

 

Greg hustled through the door of his building on the 24th, carrying four heavy plastic bags with him as he angled his way up the stairs. Christ, but it was cold. The snow had doubled in its efforts, and most of the city would be buried by morning. Greg had barely made it to the stores to stock up on food before they’d closed.

 

He noticed the rectangular package resting next to his door as he walked up, but he was too weighed down to do anything about it right away. He unlocked his flat with fumbling hands and gingerly pushed the box inside with his foot before entering himself.

 

Once he’d dumped the bags on the kitchen counter, he went back for the package. He turned it over in his hands as he sat on the couch, not finding any labels. With a shrug, he tore off the brown paper, wondering if his brother’s family had sent him something last minute.

 

His eyes widened as a second layer of paper was uncovered – deep red, embossed with delicate curling branches of gold. Holly branches, Greg guessed. The box was wrapped with a single green string that wound around its shape, ending in a decorative knot. The tag he’d been looking for was attached above; elegant black script against white and silver cardstock.

 

_To Greg Lestrade_

_Wishing you the best of the season._

_From Mycroft Holmes_

 

Greg stared, heart thudding as he read and reread the message. Mycroft. Mycroft had sent – Greg’s head whirled with trying to think over the flurry of confusion and rising hope. He hurriedly fished his phone out and scrolled through his contacts, tapping Mycroft’s name. His finger was over the call icon when he hesitated.

 

Everything had gone pear-shaped in the first place because he’d acted without thinking. Not to mention it was nearly eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. Bad enough if he pushed something unwanted on Mycroft yet again, but if he called Mycroft in the middle of some holiday function or dinner…

 

A text. A text would be okay, wouldn’t it? Mycroft wouldn’t send a gift if he was still angry, especially not one with this much care put into it. At the very least, it should be all right to say thank you.

 

Greg’s hands shook as he typed out the words.

 

 

**Hey. It’s Greg. Sorry for texting out of nowhere like this. I just wanted to say thank you for the gift. I haven’t opened it yet, but it looks brilliant. Thank you.**

**I honestly don’t know if it’s okay to be texting you again. Hopefully it is. Because I wanted to apologise.**

**I’m sorry, Mycroft. It was crap of me to kiss you without knowing if you were alright with it. You have every right to be angry.**

**I’ve spent a lot of time thinking since then, and I’ve realised something. Something I wish I’d said that night instead of putting you in a shitty situation. I don’t even know if you want to hear this from me now. But I need to be honest with you. I owe you that much.**

**I think I’ve fallen for you.**

**And I’m sorry.**

**I know you didn’t ask for it. And it wasn’t fair to burden you with it.**

**I understand if you need to have some distance from me. Because it’s not right that I wasn’t the friend you needed above everything else. The friend you were for me.**

**I’m not sure what else to say, so I should end it here. Thanks again. And Happy Christmas.**

**Greg**

Greg hit send before he could edit too much. Better to freeform it, make it honest as possible before he over thought everything. He sank back against the couch and sighed. Nothing more for him to do now. That didn’t exactly make him feel better, but it was something, at least.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, staring at the ceiling. He stirred when his stomach gurgled, reminding him he had food sitting out that needed to go in the refrigerator. He started to sit up when his phone rang, making him jump. He glanced at the screen.

 

****

**_Incoming call:_ **

****

**_Mycroft Holmes_ **

****

****

Greg forgot to breath for a second. His hand moved automatically despite the shock.

 

He hit the answer button. Raised the phone to his ear.

 

Something in the connection was off, some background noise he couldn’t place. He waited dumbly before remembering he was the one who’d been called.

 

He swallowed.

 

“Mycroft?”

He heard a breath. Someone clearing their throat.

 

“Greg.”

 

Greg’s heart felt tight.

 

“Hey,” he managed. He hesitated, nervous and unsure. “Um. You got my text?”

 

“Yes.” The odd interference momentarily increased. Mycroft’s voice was tinny through the speaker. “I’m… I apologise for ignoring your messages before. I wasn’t angry. Not really. I was-“

“It’s okay,” Greg said quickly. He mentally kicked himself the next second for talking over Mycroft. “Sorry, it’s just”-Greg smiled, nearly weak as his anxiety began to drain away-“I’m really glad you called.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. Then: “It’s good to hear your voice, Greg. I should…ave…call…ooner…”

Greg straightened up, frowning. “Mycroft?”

 

“…damn…es…sorry, Greg, the connection is a bit dodgy out here.”

“What? Aren’t you at home?”

 

“No, I’m-“ Something embarrassed entered Mycroft’s tone. “The roads are in poor shape. I took an alternate route home from my club, and I accidentally put the car in a ditch.”

 

“You what?! Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, yes. Just bloody freezing. Getting assistance is proving rather frustrating. Most of the tow companies are closed for the holidays, and those that aren’t can’t make it through the snow.”

 

Greg jumped up, grabbing his coat. “I’m coming to get you.”

 

“What? Greg, no, it’s too dangerous to come out in this weather. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I can find-“

 

“Mycroft, you could save us both a lot of time by not being a self-sacrificing sod.” Greg glanced out the window, assessing. “It’s not too bad yet. Snowplows just went by, so I’ve got some time before it piles up again.” He smirked even though no one was there to see it. “Where are you?”

 

There was that silence that meant Mycroft was considering. He sighed.

 

“I’ll text you directions.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Christ, that was brutal,” Greg said, stomping snow off his shoes.

 

Mycroft stood shivering on Greg’s doormat, looking uncertain about moving in further. It had taken luck and still serviceable back roads to get to him. Greg chose to come straight back to his flat instead of risking the longer drive to Mycroft’s.

 

“Go on in.”

 

“But…” Mycroft gestured at the melted snow and ice dripping off his clothes.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Greg headed for the kitchen, shifting through the abandoned groceries for the tea he knew he’d bought. “You should shower. Fastest way to warm up. Take whatever you want from the closet to wear, okay? I’ll make some tea in the meantime.”

 

Something flickered in Mycroft’s eyes, but he turned and walked down the hall to Greg’s bedroom.

 

While the shower ran, Greg finally got all the food put away. He turned on the kettle and let it heat as he took a towel to Mycroft’s watery footprints. Thankfully the place was fairly clean, though now he wished he’d brightened things up for the holidays. Maybe at least gotten a little tree with lights or something. He hadn’t even bothered with a wreath for the door. It probably wouldn’t matter to Mycroft, but still.

 

Greg heard the shower shut off just as he was placing two steaming mugs down on the coffee table. Mycroft emerged several minutes later. His hair was already drying into something wavier than usual. He’d found a pair of gray sweatpants and one of Greg’s old Arsenal jumpers, though the sweatpants rode a bit high on his ankles.

 

His sharp gaze immediately went to the gift he’d sent sitting on Greg’s armchair. He glanced at Greg, but said nothing.

 

“Gonna join me?” Greg asked, already perched on the left side of the couch.

 

Mycroft nodded. He took the offered mug from Greg with a murmured `Thank you` and sat, back straight and legs crossed. Something about the contradiction of that prim posture against his current clothing made Greg smile.

 

“Better?”

 

“Immensely,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, Greg. No doubt I would still be out there if you hadn’t come for me.”

 

“We’re probably gonna be trapped here a day or two though. But we’ve got plenty of food at least.” Greg looked at Mycroft curiously. ”Why didn’t you call for another car? Actually, where is your driver anyway?”

 

“At home.” Mycroft shrugged. “I did not wish to pull him away from his family on Christmas Eve.”

 

“Okay, but what about Anthea?”

 

“I gave her several days off as well. She was wise enough to spend her holidays in warmer climates.”

 

“So what were you gonna do if you couldn't get anyone to come help? Just stay there all night?”

 

“Well, things didn’t get that far, thankfully.” Mycroft took a sip of tea and set his mug down. “There were a few more creative methods I could have attempted, though I’m loathe to use my influence in that manner.” His eyes flicked to Greg’s face. “It was rather fortunate you texted when you did.”

 

Greg smiled. “Lucky that gift arrived tonight.”

 

There was pink tingeing Mycroft’s nose and cheekbones, but it might have just been from the shower. “I just… I felt like getting you something. Peace offering of sorts. Christmas and all,” he muttered, fidgeting with his hands.

 

“You mind if I open it then?”

 

Mycroft looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “That’s rather in the face of tradition, Greg.”

 

“Come on. Some people do open presents on Christmas Eve, you know.” Greg made the best puppy-dog eyes he was capable of without being obvious about it. Mycroft wasn’t fooled, but it did seem to amuse him.

 

“Oh fine,” he huffed, leaning back. His mouth curled at the corner. “Just this once.”

 

Greg threw Mycroft a grin as he reached over from where he sat and grabbed the box. “This is gorgeous,” he said, taking in the red and gold design one last time. He was a bit reluctant to tear it up. “You do it yourself?”

 

Mycroft definitely blushed that time, and Greg’s heart squeezed with fondness. “I wanted a more personal touch.”

 

“It shows.” Greg pulled out his phone and took a quick picture, smiling at Mycroft’s bemusement. “Memory,” he said. Carefully, he pulled open the end folds, trying not to damage the paper. The actual box was beige, with the word `Emile’s` in the center.

 

“It’s not a well known store,” Mycroft explained as Greg worked off the top lid, filling the silence. “But I think the quality of their work speaks for itself.”

 

Greg’s breath caught. “Yeah… it does.” He examined the tie, running his fingers over the raised stripes woven into the black silk.

 

“Nothing too fancy, I thought.” Mycroft observed his reaction, a little nervous. “Something versatile enough for multiple occasions.”

 

Greg wasn’t sure his smile could get any bigger. “This is great,” he said, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “Really. Thank you.”

 

Relief broke over Mycroft’s face, loosening the tension in his shoulders and neck. His quiet smile surfaced - the one that Greg only ever saw when they were alone and had fiercely missed. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

 

Greg suddenly stood. “Just one second,” he said as he darted into his bedroom. He quickly returned and settled back on the couch, saying, “I’m sorry it’s not wrapped. I didn’t think I’d be able to give it to you for Christmas. I was going to wait until I could see you in person.”

 

Mycroft was silent, glancing between Greg and the small box he’d just been handed. He remained so as he opened the flap, eyes widening in recognition. Greg thought he saw Mycroft’s fingers tremble as he lifted up the teacup, white porcelain gleaming in the light.

 

“There’s this little antique place near the Yard. Walk by it sometimes to go to lunch, and I saw this in the window. It’s the only one of the original set, though I don’t think I could have afforded the whole thing even if they’d had it.”

 

Mycroft turned the cup around in his hand as Greg spoke, looking at the line of blue around the flared mouth, at the simple pastoral stream that looped around the middle.

 

“I know it’s not a match for the other one, but it’s not too bad a substitute-“

 

“Stop.” Mycroft’s voice was barely there, but Greg immediately cut off when he heard it. Mycroft set down the cup and briefly closed his eyes, taking a breath. “Stop, you ridiculous, considerate man. It’s perfect.”

 

Neither of them spoke for a length of time, both trying to work through the awkward atmosphere that had descended.

 

Mycroft gathered his resolve first.

 

“Greg, when you-“ Greg could clearly see him choosing and rechoosing his words. “When you kissed me, I was… quite upset. You have to understand, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had anything close to a friendship. A real one, I mean. So I’m rather protective of ours.”

 

Mycroft faltered, seeming to lose his courage. Greg turned sideways on the couch, drawing his knees in so he could face Mycroft directly. He gave an encouraging nod.

 

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

 

Mycroft smiled a little at that. He refortified his composure and continued.

 

“I did not know your feelings had… intensified. Thinking back, I should have. Perhaps I have blinders on when it comes to you.” He sighed. “Then you kissed me, and I felt betrayed. I felt you were changing something between us, something I consider precious, without giving me any agency in the matter. That did not sit well with me for some time.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Greg burst out, unable to bite down the words any more. “I know I said it already, but I am. I’m so, so sorry.” He faltered as Mycroft reached over, covering Greg’s hand with his own.

 

“I believe you. Truly I do.” He angled towards Greg, letting their knees bump together. “I am not blameless in all this. It was childish of me to ignore you the way I did, instead of discussing things like adults. I suppose I didn't trust you enough to believe you would understand how this had affected me.” He paused, clasping Greg’s fingers a bit tighter. “I should have remembered you are better than that.”

 

“Then – are we okay?”

 

Mycroft smiled. “Yes.”

 

Greg felt like he could finally breath for the first time in months. He turned his palm up so he could squeeze Mycroft’s hand back. “Thanks. Really missed you, Myc – shit, sorry, Mycroft. Christ, mucking this up already.”

 

Mycroft laughed, and God, Greg had missed that too. “You know you’re allowed to call me that.” He sobered quickly again. “There is one other complication, though.”

 

“Yeah?” After flip-flopping emotions all night, Greg was getting a bit exhausted. “What?”

 

Mycroft’s mouth pressed together. “In your text, you said you had fallen for me.”

 

“Oh. Myc, please don’t worry about that. However you want us to be, that’s fine-“

 

“What if I said I was okay with it?”

 

Greg’s brain screeched to a sudden halt. It took him a few seconds to reboot. “You… what?”

 

Mycroft turned his face away, a high flush on his cheeks. He hadn’t removed his hand from Greg’s though. “I’ve been thinking over things as well. As I said, I was upset when you kissed me. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.”

 

A tremor went through his body.

 

“The last thing I want is to lose your friendship. And if we were to pursue this, there is a very real chance that could happen. But I think – I think I would be willing to take that risk. If it were you. If you still wanted.” He chanced a look at Greg. “Do you?”

 

Greg couldn’t understand how his heart hadn’t battered its way straight out of his chest. He swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his throat. “Yeah. I really do.”

 

Mycroft was red all the way to his hairline by then. He searched Greg’s face, hesitant, those clever eyes cataloging every minute facet of his features.

 

“Greg, I - now that we are on the same page, as it were, could we try-“ His eyes lingered on Greg’s lips, and something shuddery and warm imploded in Greg’s midsection. “Would you kiss me again?”

 

_Holy hell._

 

Greg nodded, his body oddly steady even though his nerves were rioting inside him. He moved closer to Mycroft - cautious, watchful. He slid a hand along Mycroft’s waist, his heartbeat seeming to stutter at the small shiver he felt under his palm.

 

His other hand came up, tracing soft along Mycroft’s cheek, his jawline, trying to reassure that apprehension teeming in Mycroft’s eyes. Greg moved to the back of his neck, cupping gently, letting his fingers edge into Mycroft’s hair.

 

Mycroft’s eyes drifted shut. His lips parted.

 

“ _Please…”_

 

Greg leaned in, sealing their mouths together.

 

His initial brushes were tentative, chaste; a piece of fear still hanging on that wouldn’t let him go any further.

 

Then Mycroft’s tongue flashed over the seam of his lips. He felt his own name murmured against his skin.

 

The world dissolved away. The snow, the cold, London. Nothing else existed.

 

Just Mycroft.

 

His mouth, his breath; his body, warm and solid and real against Greg’s.

 

He remembered when they parted to breathe. He had to ask. “Is this – are you okay?”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft blinked, slightly unfocused, pupils like onyx. He licked his lips, shuddering. “Yes.”

 

Greg exhaled, something jittery and scared going with it. Mycroft made a questioning sound as Greg shuffled forward and nudged his face against the crook of Mycroft’s neck.

 

“Greg?”

 

Greg shook his head, burrowing against Mycroft. “Happy Christmas,” he said, his voice thick. He listened to Mycroft’s pulse, grounding himself with Mycroft’s scent.

 

Then, Mycroft’s arms folded him up, cocooning Greg in against his chest. As he stroked Greg’s hair, that last bit of anxiety finally released and dissolved. Mycroft kissed his forehead, and Greg thought he might melt away with contentment.

 

“Happy Christmas,” Mycroft whispered.


End file.
